


It Will Pass

by Gleaming_Spires (cuppaktea)



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: 80s sweets, Canon Compliant, Gen, IDK is this fluff or angst with a happy ending, M/M, Pining, a veritable pine forest, canon character death, missing scenes format, possible asexual Scripps, pre slash probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 09:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppaktea/pseuds/Gleaming_Spires
Summary: Scripps and Posner have a standing study session in Scripps' room. Sweets are consumed and life is discussed. Everybody pines, except Dakin who is more of a gloater.





	It Will Pass

“Pass the flying saucers.”

 

“You’ve had three already!” Scripps moans, chucking the paper bag across his duvet cover to his friend anyway.

 

“There’s eight, it’s fair,” Posner mumbles as he pops another into his mouth. “And you’ve had nearly all the bootlaces.”

 

“Liar, there were hardly any to start with”

 

Posner peers into the bag and raises a sceptical eyebrow.

 

“I want to do another song for class. If I choose will you help me learn it?”

 

“What kind of a song?” Scripps asks, warily.

 

“Another love song, I think. To Dakin.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Pos. The last one didn’t go down that well.”

 

“What do you mean? It went brilliantly. Dakin is no longer in two minds about my feelings towards him. I’ve planted the seed.”

 

Scripps shakes his head, laughing at Posner’s unfathomable optimism and gets up to fetch a book.

 

“I can’t find my Tudor economic documents, can I have a look at yours?”

 

“Oh, Scrippsy, you flirt!” Posner flops onto the covers laughing and Scripps feels himself blushing red to the roots of his hair.

 

Scripps finds he works best on these afternoons when Pos comes round, not that he relies on him particularly for help, but just having him there makes it easier to focus.

 

“Dakin said Mr Hector would start touching me,” Posner says, idly searching for something of the index of his own textbook. “Do you think he will?”

 

“I dunno, Pos. I hope not. Just tell him to sod off if he does, he usually stops as soon as he’s been caught. The dirty old git.”

 

“That’s surely a good sign”

 

“What?!” Scripps looks up, horrified.

 

“That Dakin thought to warn me. Perhaps he’s finally seeing me as a man? Dakin, I mean”

 

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up” Scripps says around another bootlace. “It’s all ‘Fiona’ these days” _when it’s not ‘Irwin’, that is._

 

They meet most evenings at Scripps’ invitation, holing up in his bedroom to study as the evenings draw in towards winter and it becomes easier to knuckle down and study indoors instead of riding their bikes to the park after school.

 

They take it in turns to buy in the sweets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This particular afternoon, approaching Halloween, the miserable weather and the turning of pages is the only sound in the room.

 

Posner has been uncharacteristically silent all day. If Scripps admits it to himself, he’s perhaps a little worried, but he’s not one to push, preferring to let Pos tell him if he wants to. He tries to show he cares though: he lets Pos put on his tape of The Cure even though Scripps finds it interferes with his concentration and personally he can’t stand Robert Smith. He doesn’t even hog the jelly babies, even though today Posner seems more interested in chewing on the stump of his pencil. Scripps watches out of the corner of his eye as he works.

 

“I told Irwin” Posner says eventually. “I wonder does that count as coming out?”

 

It’s not what Scripps was expecting.

 

“Do you need to ‘come out’, Pos?”

 

Posner frowns at him, hurt, and Scripps hastens to explain. “I mean, you’ve told me, you’ve declared undying love to Dakin and everybody else has… got the message.”

 

“Except my parents.” Posner mumbles.

 

Scripps doesn’t know what to say to that, he knows they’re religious and elderly and that Pos won’t tell them because they won’t understand and his friend’s desire to spare their feelings will always come before anything else he might feel.

 

Scripps isn’t sure whether he admires Posner’s bravery or pities him for it more.

 

“What did he say?” He asks, instead.

 

“He wasn’t very helpful – didn’t give me any answers, didn’t say much at all really. I got the feeling he was uncomfortable with it. That surprised me, I thought _he’d_ be understanding.”

 

“Maybe he is, maybe that’s the problem.”

 

“How d’you mean?”

 

“Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

 

“I suppose. Dakin _was_ teasing him mercilessly the other day.”

 

For some reason, Scripps has an urge to defend his other best friend (even though he’s an arse who doesn’t deserve it) “It wasn’t just Dakin.”

 

“I didn’t!” Pos exclaims, his voice rising an octave in his eagerness to declare his innocence

 

“But you laughed.”

 

“Well… yeah. Didn’t you?”

 

“Nearly pissed myself.”

 

“But not because of him being gay, because he’s up himself and Dakin was getting away with murder.”

 

“Yeah” Scripps agrees, feeling guilty about how easily he finds himself carried along in Dakin’s wake sometimes.

 

“That could be me one day.” Posner sighs “Being mocked by youths for my sexuality.”

 

“Don’t be so melodramatic. Why? You want to go into teaching now?”

 

“I don’t know what I want to do, but it’s an option – probably wouldn’t be too dreadful.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

On bonfire night Posner stays for dinner and they watch a local fireworks display from Scripps’ bedroom window.

 

The two of them stand huddled close together in the dark to get the best view over the tops of the pine trees that screen the garden from the neighbours, both standing where one of the treetops is shorter than the rest. Not for the first time, Scripps notices that Posner smells of mint shampoo.

 

The noise from the last of the explosions rattles the glass in the frame and brings with it a cold draft.

 

Posner shivers.

 

“That was nice, only now I’m saddled with the guilt of wasting those ten minutes” Scripps says, flicking on the light. “Better catch up.”

 

“It’s a getting a bit much when you can’t have ten unproductive minutes in a day” Posner agrees, rubbing at his ever-present headache.

 

“Cheer up misery-guts, it’s not that bad.”

 

“Says you” Posner sulks

 

“Well, what can I do then?”

 

“I don’t know. All I want is for someone to hold me and say everything will be ok.”

 

“Well, why didn’t you say? Come here.”

 

Scripps throws his arm around his friend’s shoulders and gives him an awkward one-armed squeeze.

 

“It’ll be alright, Pos. I promise.” He tells him, surreptitiously breathing in more of his minty smell.

 

“Thanks.” Posner disengages and returns to his place at the foot of the bed and his waiting essay.

 

“No bother.” Scripps mutters, his ears going pink.

 

“Except I meant someone who’s hopelessly in love with me.”

 

“Dakin is who you mean.”

 

Pos nods, not looking at him “I appreciate it, but it’s not the same.”

 

Scripps turns back to his essay with a mumbled: “Suppose not. I did my best.”

 

“Really, Scrippsy I do feel better. And in case you were worried, you don’t need to, I don’t fancy you.”

 

“Great.” It comes out grouchier than he means it to.

 

However, Posner assumes that he’s moved on to trying to proofread his work and stops talking, so the effect is the same.

 

Ten minutes later Pos shuts his books. “Actually, I think I’m going to go home, I can’t concentrate here and I can’t be doing you any favours with that.”

 

He gestures to Scripps’ half-finished essay with his biro.

 

He’s right, of course, but all the same, Scripps feels empty at the thought of him leaving.

 

“You’re welcome to stay. I’ll be up all night working on it anyway.”

 

“Thanks, but I think I should go, the ride will clear my head.”

 

“Safe journey then.” Scripps tries not to imitate his mother by glancing worriedly out at the rain-slicked streets – he just about resists.

 

Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed, unblinking on the blur of blue ink that is his best offering for Irwin so far.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The truth is, he doesn’t think about sex much at all and it bothers him. Dakin never shuts up about it, in one way or another. Posner doesn’t mention it often but the implication bubbles underneath everything else – his loneliness, his longing for Dakin, his desperate desire to get away from the stifling influence of Sheffield and his parents and the weight of their expectations.

 

More of Scripps’ thoughts (and diary pages) are taken up with wondering why he doesn’t think about it.

 

Pos arrives as he’s pondering it for the hundredth time that week and chucks a bag onto the bed by way of hello.

 

Scripps snaps the diary closed and jams it under his pillow. If it were Dakin appearing suddenly in his bedroom Scripps would already be listening to his own words being read aloud (to his little sister, probably), but Pos doesn’t even ask.

 

He has a rummage in the bag while Posner busies himself pulling books out of his backpack.

 

“Parma violets?” Scripps laughs.

 

“I like Parma violets.”

 

“What are you, an old lady?”

 

Pos rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m an old lady. I bought lovehearts for you”

 

Scripps smiles, he suspects it looks a bit dopey.

 

“And there are marshmallows to share too.”

 

“Do you think about sex very much?” He asks, opening the marshmallows.

 

Posner sits and tilts his head to one side, considering the question. “I think about having sex with Dakin a lot, yes. I wonder what he kisses like, too. Actually, maybe I just think about Dakin: I think about him all the time. Whenever I’m alone - when I’m eating breakfast, doing my homework, getting ready for bed, whatever. I imagine what he’s doing: wonder if somehow we’re sharing an experience, only not in the same place. The first thing I think when I wake up is ‘I wonder what he’s thinking’”

 

“I think you’re better off not knowing, if I’m honest, Pos.” Scripps drawls, wishing he’d never asked.

 

“I’m serious. It’s all encompassing! I can’t bear it.”

 

“It will pass, eventually. You can’t keep it up forever, or you’ll be exhausted.”

 

“I am exhausted!”

 

“I don’t think about it that much. Do you think there’s something the matter with me?”

 

“I think you just haven’t found the right person yet. When you do your mind will be a veritable cesspit – trust me.”

 

“I’m not so sure.”

 

“I am. How much fuel for filthy fantasies can you have what with God being your current love affair? Michelangelo is about the most exciting stuff out there.”

 

Scripps laughs in agreement, but he’s not convinced.

 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Scrippsy.” Posner says, smiling at him sincerely.

 

Scripps’ stomach gives a weird sort of lurch. He puts the marshmallows down in case he’s had too many.

 

Late that night, long after he should be asleep, Scripps has a stern talk with himself, via his diary, naturally. He tells himself he is wrong to be jealous. He is wrong to want Pos. He writes it in capitals and underlines it – twice for good measure. He is wrong to lie to his friend by omission. _But it would be worse to admit it_ he argues– it would be cruel, because he doesn’t want him – not in that way, he just doesn’t want Posner to want anybody else.

 

 _It’s nice to be needed_ he writes, _but I wish it wasn’t as something so fucking **passive**_ _as a sounding board_ : _Selfishness, in a word, as a synonym for love._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two weeks later, Posner turns up on the Scripps’ doorstep on the verge of tears after the semi-disastrous (for Pos anyway) Fountain’s trip.

 

“I thought you had a meeting with Hector this afternoon?” Scripps asks, gesturing for Posner to come in.

 

“I did. He let me go early.”

 

“Why? Is there something wrong?”

 

“Yes. Dakin never even looks at me any more and I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life until I die a virgin.”

 

“Oh is that all? I was worried for a second there.”

 

Pos scowls.

 

“Come on up, you can help me with this thing for Irwin.”

 

“I don’t even want to think about Irwin.” Pos mutters, climbing the stairs.

 

There aren’t any sweets because Scripps’ mum doesn’t buy them (“they’ll rot your teeth”), and Posner wasn’t planning on coming over. Instead, they have a plate of scones from Mrs Scripps’ pantry between them on the duvet.

 

“I don’t know where he finds the time! I barely have time to get to church once a week” Scripps consoles him around a mouthful of scone and jam. “I don’t even remember when I last read a book for enjoyment’s sake. How does Dakin even fit in **two** sordid conquests and a sexual identity crisis?”

 

“Do you think he really is having one then?” Posner sits up straighter, his eyes losing some of their sadness and taking on a strange gleam.

 

“It’s more like a sexual identity not-crisis. Something’s going on but I doubt he’s noticed and I’d be shocked if it bothers him when he does work it out.”

 

Posner cheers up significantly after that and hums random tunes throughout their impromptu study session. After he’s gone Scripps snaps at his mum for no reason and goes to bed feeling doubly guilty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I can’t believe Dakin would say that.” Posner seethes at the ceiling of Scripps’ bedroom from his position flat on the floor. “He knows about my Granddad.”

 

“He was only doing it to flirt with Irwin if it makes you feel better”

 

“It doesn’t” Posner bites out.

 

Then, a second later: “would you really call it flirting?” He asks, propping himself up on his elbows and twisting around to squint at Scripps.

 

Scripps nods, taking no pleasure in being right.

 

“What does he even see in him?” Posner fumes, flopping back onto the floor.

 

Scripps doesn’t ask who is the subject and who is the object of that particular question, the answer is the same either way.

 

“Beats me.”

 

“When I get to Oxford, promise me you’ll never let me spare so much as a longing look at Dakin.”

 

It’s a promise Scripps can readily make. “I’ll make you buy me a drink for every mention of him.”

 

“You don’t drink”

 

“I intend to start. Come on, let’s get on with these love letters to Hitler so we can get out of this place.”

 

Scripps goes to bed that night hopeful that this shift in attitude marks the turning of a corner. It’s the first time he’s heard anything from Pos that indicates a genuine wish to get over Dakin.

 

His diary entry for the night concludes: _‘Long may it last.’_

 

No such luck, of course. In a week Posner is putting effort into sounding ‘balanced’ and sickening after the smarmy prick again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why doesn’t he like me??” Posner wails one afternoon as they cycle slowly home together.

 

“He does like you, Pos.”

 

“Not the way I need him to.” Posner pouts “Also he doesn’t.”

 

“He does, Pos. He’s just a dick.” Scripps sighs, coming to a stop and leaning his bike against the wall of the sweetshop. “Any requests? It’s my turn to buy.”

 

“About a ton of pick’n’mix for me please – no milk bottles though.”

 

Posner leans against the wall outside while he waits.

 

“Does he talk about me at all?” He asks as soon as Scripps emerges from the shop.

 

‘No’ is the answer. Dakin talks about sex, his studies, Fiona, Irwin and himself. Not necessarily in that order. Scripps isn’t sure how to break this to Posner, though.

“Only in passing.” Is the little white lie he settles for. It’s essentially the truth, only a lot less hurtful.

 

At this stage, he almost wishes Dakin did return Pos’ feelings – it’d certainly make his life a lot easier. Only almost, though.

 

“Seriously, that’s just his personality. What is it you like about him?”

 

“Oh,” Pos sighs “you know.”

 

Scripps doesn’t but decides the most tactful response is to not say anything.

 

Dakin is his best friend and has been since they were six, but at times like this Scripps finds it difficult not to resent him – what makes it ten times worse is that Dakin has absolutely no idea of the value of that which he irritably throws away on a daily basis.

 

Scripps’ diary entry that night is uncharacteristically brief and just reads ‘ _FUCK.’_

 

At least he manages to talk Posner out of performing another song.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s no good saying that after school, when they finally get into Oxford, things will get better, Posner will get over it or Scripps will get over Posner and life will go on. It may be true but it doesn’t help. At least, it doesn’t help Scripps get to sleep any easier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day they all get their letters, it’s sunny and dry and after they leave the party at school Dakin, Scripps and Posner walk to the park together. Dakin has money and Scripps looks old enough to be their father so they get a six-pack from the local offie, and a bag of liquorice allsorts and camp out on the bench that Scripps secretly thinks of as his and Posner’s bench (it being where they routinely met in the summer before that last term).

 

Dakin talks about Irwin until long after they’ve zoned out – Posner tries to derail him by suggesting that Hector might get there first, what with the lift and all, but Dakin just gives him the finger and carries on extolling his own sexual irresistibility.

 

“Do you think he will though, really?” Posner asks, incredulously, once he can get another word in.

 

Dakin smirks. “I don’t see why not. He seemed pretty keen this afternoon.”

 

“Try not to think about it, Pos.” Scripps counsels him after they’re left alone together.

 

Of course, that was before they knew that anything had happened.

 

When Posner hears the news the next morning he goes straight over.

 

Scripps has already heard. Mrs Hector is a member of the congregation at his church and the vicar did a special reading that morning.

 

They have no sweets. Instead, Mrs Scripps brings them cups of tea and they sit side by side on the carpet, facing the wall.

 

“I can’t believe he’s gone. All that life, energy, all of that knowledge just…. Gone. And nobody else will ever do the endings or the improvised French classes, or learn the poems. It’ll be like he never existed.”

 

Scripps can tell that it’s all occurring to Posner as he speaks, each consequence becoming reality for him once he says it aloud. His voice seems to lose a bit of innocence with every word.

 

“It won’t, Pos because we’ll remember him.”

 

“’ _At the going down of the sun and in the mornings_ ’?”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“I know. Sorry. It’s just shit: a memory in exchange for Hector… I was going to write him a letter, I already started it actually, to tell him how much his classes meant to me, how he shaped who I am, to say thank you.”

 

“Your way of saying thanks is better than Dakin’s, anyway.”

 

“Did you hear anything about Irwin?”

 

“In the hospital, apparently. I told Dakin to go and see him. I doubt he will, though.”

 

They sit in silence until the tea has gone cold, the sounds of the house going on around them.

 

“I don’t think I’m in love with Dakin any more.”

 

Scripps isn’t sure whether Posner is addressing him or simply thinking aloud again, so he doesn’t say anything.

 

“Yesterday when he hugged me I thought I would feel wonderful, but I didn’t. I felt just the same as ever. Thinking about it now I’m not sure what it was I saw in him.”

 

Guiltily, Scripps turns his face away to hide his smile.

 

“The thing is, now I’m not trying to get him to love me anymore I don’t know what there is to aim for. Life seems a bit – empty.”

 

“You got into Oxford, Pos with a full scholarship, that has to count for something.”

 

“I suppose. Maybe that’s what made me forget Dakin?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“No Dakin, no exam, and no Hector. What’s even the point now?”

 

“That’s the shock talking. I’m fairly sure the dons will give us something to do. Just - Promise me we’ll still be friends when we get to Oxford.”

 

Posner frowns. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

 

“I dunno. Maybe you’ll meet some other useless poser and spend all your time trying to impress him; maybe we’ll both just lose track of each other. Please? Promise me we’ll still hang out.”

 

“’ _For who can bear to feel himself forgotten’”_

 

“Auden? Hector would be proud.”

 

Posner nods and swallows, staring hard at the wall opposite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Posner’s idea to perform a song for Hector. Rehearsing means they spend every day up until the funeral together. Scripps thinks it helps him cope more than anything else could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They had had the idea of getting the train down together but Posner’s parents want to see the place and Scripps’s dad insists on helping him settle in, so that it’s four days after Posner leaves Sheffield that they next see each other.

 

They meet in Scripps’ room out of habit. Pos has made a good start of throwing off the restraints of home and already has two phone numbers off blokes that he admits he’ll never call.

 

“It just feels good to know that I could if I wanted to.”

 

Scripps sort of understands and sort of doesn’t. “You’ll be doing better than Dakin at this rate.” He teases.

 

“Have you heard from Dakin at all?” Posner asks with false indifference.

 

“I’ll be surprised if I hear from him before spring, if I’m honest. Unless I have a sex change before then"

 

“Don’t do it Scrippsy, you have charms enough as you are.”

 

Scripps feels a grin steal over his face as the tops of his ears turn red.

 

"Mind you, all things considered, maybe I won’t need it. Why?” He asks “were you looking for him?”

 

“Oh, no. I just thought it might be nice to see him, it’s been nearly two weeks.”

 

“Right, Get your coat on, you owe me a drink.”

 

Posner raises his eyebrows. “Started drinking already have you?”

 

“You’ve driven me to it. Actually, make it two.”

 

“How is that two?”

 

“One for asking and one for counting the days.”

 

Posner’s sigh is frustrated. “I’m over him, I am. It’s just the process seems to be more… gradual than I’d anticipated.”

 

Still grinning, Scripps shakes his head at him. “You know now that’s three.”

 

His diary entry for that night isn’t his most legible but reviewing it the next morning Scripps makes out several references to _‘golden fair hair_ ’, ‘ _limpid blue eyes’_ and _‘willowy gracefulness_ ’ (despairingly, he wonders why his personal version of Mr Hyde has to be a Mills & Boon writer). There’s also one sentence (if he can call it that) regarding _‘fucking Dakin’_ – he briefly considers making this grounds for being owed another drink, except showing the page to Pos is worth a lot more than the price of a pint.

 

Fuck it, he thinks, closing the book, maybe he’s destined to be selfish for a while. After all, it will pass. Probably.

**Author's Note:**

> The two poems quoted are 'The Night Mail' by W. H. Auden and 'For The Fallen' by Laurence Binyon


End file.
